


Fringe believers and hopeless wanderers

by iiscos



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Titanic AU, happy ending because i am weak, shameless references to Titanic, some villainous OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-23 10:44:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6114067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Jedi falls in love with a kind, but poor mechanic aboard the luxurious, ill-fated R.S.C. Terranova. </p><p>A Star Wars/Titanic AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, sorry, this idea entered my head and would not leave! Someone wanted a Star Wars/Titanic AU on tumblr, and for the love of God, I cannot find the post anymore. But I hope they find the fic because I'm too excited for my own good and would like to spew this out as soon as possible.
> 
> Thus, I decided to take a break from _I have lied my way to the stars_ but in its place this week is a new Obikin fic that actually have an end in sight !!! I will get back to my first fic, I promise!
> 
> This has three parts. Already planned (8-10K). Enjoy the ride ♥

" _I think we deserve_  
_a soft epilogue, my love._  
_We are good people_  
_and we’ve suffered enough_."  
— **Seventy Years of Sleep # 4. nikka ursula**

 

~~

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” Obi-Wan’s frown is barely perceptible as he exits Senator Organa’s sleek, silver grav-car, tilting his head in an odd angle to meet the massive monument that is the R.S.C. Terranova. “It doesn’t look any bigger than the Langston.”

“You can be blasé about some things, Obi-Wan, but not about Terranova,” Bail laughs, nudging the Jedi’s elbow in good humor, “It’s over a thousand feet longer than the Langston, and far more luxurious.”

And far more luxurious indeed is the thirty-eight deck galactic cruise ship that holds temples and gardens, pools and parks, restaurants and cantinas, theaters and coliseums, hundreds of beautiful, spacious suits for the galactic elite, and thousands of more humble housing for the moderately wealthy. Terranova is lauded as the largest cruise ship ever built—avant-garde, self-sufficient, and indestructible. Even the name is fitting—“new land”—for it is more of an urban terrarium than a ship, completed with its own bionetworks, resources, and populations from the very top of the socialite food chain to the very bottom.

Obi-Wan twists his lips dourly at the frivolous indulgence, the shameful excess that borderlines hedonism trapped within a grotesque machine of transparisteel and metal, soon to be jettisoned into space and taking him with it.

This is not an appropriate mission for a Jedi—let alone a Master—to cater to the whim and paranoia of politicians. The Jedi’s purpose is to preserve justice and peace, a duty fulfilled with questionable conviction as Separatists ran rampage for five long years, ravaging countless systems that suffered the misfortune of crossing their path. The war is over, and the galaxy rightfully rejoices, but the Jedi do not celebrate, do not indulge in what can only be considered as a long overdue atonement for the failure to listen and to act accordingly in the wake of past mistakes.

Of the many vices that the Council frowns upon, reveling in the defeat of an enemy falls moderately high on their list. However, the courteous request for a Jedi escort is not something the Council can deny either, considering the extent of mutual dependence between the Jedi and the Senate since emerging from the catastrophic war. In a fragile time when faith has been shaken and values questioned, the Council simply did not wish to dispatch one of their young Knights—still restive from the thrill of battle—to a needless encounter with power, hedonism, and greed.

Perhaps, this is why the Council chose Obi-Wan for the mission instead, knowing his propensity for the rules and the likelihood that he will have a dreadful time.

Two birds. One stone. It must’ve been an easy decision in hindsight.

~~

Obi-Wan descends to the grand dining saloon, dressed in his nicest Jedi robes. Senator Amidala is engaged in conversation at the end of the stair, but she smiles brilliantly upon catching his eyes, motioning for him to join her.

“Obi-Wan, I am so happy you are here!”

Obi-Wan bears his best smile, as he curtly declines the servant who attempts to hand him a tall glass of champagne.

Padmé appears as exquisite as ever, her dark hair drawn back and braided in a half-crescent bun. She wore an elegant golden bodice beneath a velvet blue overcoat, flared at the shoulders with dark lace and pearls. The plush fabric of her long dress ripples with each graceful step, as she brushes past her company to take Obi-Wan’s hands.

Within her small powerful circle stand Bail Organa, the sapphire-skinned Pantoran Senator Riyo Chuchi, and Kal Novastar—a Lorkeon businessman sporting a simple black suit, the kind that would suggest a hefty price tag solely for its elegant minimalism.

A human immigrant who arrived at the Lorkeon system at a young age, Novastar is perhaps the richest man to emerge from their uprising against Separatist occupation. During the latter years of the war, which proved to be a critical time for the Lorkeon insurgence, Novastar had capitalized on the desperation of the waning Trade Federation and created several ingenious business deals that ensured much more than the simple survival of his planet system. And through his recent marriage to Lady Reya of their capital planet Lorenddur, the Lorkeon even has a title now to complement his immense wealth.

Prior to this day, Obi-Wan has only had the privileged of seeing this man in holographs. Funny, that he had imagined the owner of the majestic Terranova to be bit taller.

“It is an honor to have you joining us tonight, General Kenobi,” Novastar greets Obi-Wan with a tight-lipped smile and a firm handshake. “The war would not have ended, and neither would my planet be free, if it hadn’t been for the bravery of generals, such as yourself.”

Novastar is a dark-haired man, handsome and unassuming upon first glance. But straight-on, there is something off about his looks—the tigerish eyebrows over too solemn eyes, the shadow of a stubble that appears matted on, the poise of his movements with artificial perfection—almost like a specter wearing the suit of a man.

“The Jedi are keepers of peace, Lord Novastar,” Obi-Wan returns politely, “I only wish we could have fulfilled our duty sooner.”

“Every war has its casualties, every victory its price,” the Lorkeon muses, “But we must not dwell on death this evening. I have invited you all in celebration of freedom, democracy, and the relative fortune of our system’s recovery in this after-war. The Lorkeon system is on the right path to the prosperity we had once relished, and you will never understand the extent of my gratitude. Honorable senators, Master Jedi—” he raises his tall glass. “—To victory.”

“To victory,” everyone repeats.

~~

“Do you carry Corellian rum?”

“We are not in the third-class dining saloon.” The barista purses her lips, the judgment in her eyes almost obscured by her long lashes.

“And you did not answer my question.” Obi-Wan frowns, hardly in the mood for mincing words.

She stares at him for a long second before sighing, reaching into the cabinets to prepare his drink.

Sparing himself from further patronizing looks, Obi-Wan takes his glass to the bow of the ship, where the ceiling is constructed entirely of transparisteel, allowing almost a panoramic view of the passing stars around them.

Corellian rum had been Qui-Gong’s preferred drink—over the sweeter liquors that his old Master had often teased Obi-Wan for requesting. Obi-Wan sips at his drink, the liquid bitter against his tongue, and then, fire in his throat. It takes effort not to grimace.

It was this day, ten standard years ago, when Qui-Gong had fallen during their mission on Naboo. His body was burned in a funeral pyre in Theed, so there was no tomb housing his remains, no monument with his name engraved, while all remnants of his life had been erased upon Obi-Wan’s return to the Temple—his clothing, his minimal possessions taken by cleaning droids. And when Obi-Wan requested a new apartment, a smaller one intended for Knights without Padawans, it truly felt as if Qui-Gon Jinn had never existed—maybe, except within the small fragment of Obi-Wan’s mind and soul that still aches today.

The past is resolute and unchangeable. It is not the Jedi way to dwell on the past. His old Master's gentle teasing, his favorite drink, the sudden rush of fear and loss that tore through Obi-Wan the moment their bond was forcibly severed—perhaps, Obi-Wan should have tucked away a long time ago, as he had done with every other memory in the past ten years.

He did not wish to be here tonight on this sensitive day—trapped in a massive, transparisteel snow globe with only politicians and businessmen for company. They irk him in their virtuous talk of peace, unity, and victory, when they could not have been more far removed from the mud of trenches or the fire of pillaged cities.

Politicians make wars, soldiers fight them, and the people bleed and bleed. How is the galaxy any fair?

Even the Senators with the purest intentions—such as Bail or Padmé—lack this understanding to some extent. And now they celebrate with the wealth profiteered from death and destruction, because Novastar is an advocate of the Republic now, and the questionable morality behind his wealth can be so easily overlooked.

Obi-Wan supposes that true sovereignty cannot be fathomed anymore, not when such intimacy exists between business, politics, and now, the Jedi Order. The guardians of peace have become the guardians of the Republic, subject to the same enticement, corruption, and sidestepping of morals as their political counterparts. It is not something that the Order is prepared for—in their century of isolation and exclusivity—just as they were unprepared for the Galactic war. Now, in the ugly aftermath, Obi-Wan can only hope that the Jedi will adapt to their new niche and not allow these changes to overshadow their intrinsic values.

A peal of laughter shakes him from his thoughts, as he looks beyond the platform to see a small group of children playing on the third-class tier below. There are families around him, as well as lovers and partners in every sense, enjoying their time beneath the veil of stars.

The deck is curious in its step-ladder design—perhaps, the only region of the ship where all passengers, regardless of wealth or class, share the same air. The first-class occupy the highest platform, with only railings and a steep climb separating them from the rest of the civilians. Obi-Wan has to admit that the open deck is an elegant addition to Terranova, a rare celebration of beauty and simplicity, encased in a grotesquely self-indulging metallic shell.

The Jedi finishes his drink, feeling the weight of eyes on him as he examines the fading condensation on the empty glass. He turns and finds a young man on the lowest tier, resting against the railing with a holopad under his arm. The look he gives Obi-Wan is that of an intense and unwavering fascination—transfixed even as the Jedi locks eyes with him. A long moment passes where Obi-Wan doesn’t think, doesn’t even breathe, until he forces himself to tear away first.

~~

There is tiredness in his bones, his eyes, his mind, but Obi-Wan does not sleep.

It is a lingering dread—one that is nonsensical and childish in nature—that urges him awake and stubbornly refuse the unnerving moment just before unconsciousness, when all his pain, sorrow, and guilt flood rampantly through the gates of his mind so carefully guarded during the comforting light of day.

Death dances behind his eyelids whenever he closes them, and Obi-Wan chooses to deny sleep a moment longer, so that maybe, tomorrow will not arrive so quickly

He descends to the deck without a drink this time and finds company in the form of the young man from before, ambling across the first-class tier. He leans with his elbows against the railing, as he watches Obi-Wan choose a spot by the edge of the platform, a respectable distance away.

“You’re a Jedi," the young man starts without preamble, bridging the gap between. "I can tell by your clothes, the way you stand.”

Obi-Wan examines the man—the boy, really—broad-shouldered and tall, with dark unruly hair and brooding, handsome looks. Arrogance radiates from the way he carries himself, the grin in lieu of a smile. His clothes are simple and worn but functions well to accentuate the lean muscle underneath sunkissed skin.

“My name is Anakin,” the boy adds, almost as an afterthought.

Obi-Wan sighs and lifts a tired hand, too weary to entertain an unwanted conversation. This is not an appropriate use of the Force, but then again, nothing about his inclusion on Terranova is appropriate.

“You will return to your chamber now," he says firmly, "You will rest until morning.”

Rather than silent obedience, a sharp, barking laugh echoes against the smooth transparisteel dome.

“Your Jedi mind tricks won’t work on me.”

Obi-Wan looks at the young man, surprised. He retracts his hand, feeling foolish.

“I have been acquainted with other Jedi before,” Anakin grins.

Obi-Wan brushes his fingers through the front of his hair, looking away in an attempt to suppress a frown. “You must have not grown any wiser from your previous experience.”

“They are my friends,” the young man insists, to which the Jedi raises a skeptical brow.

“Friends who attempted to manipulate your mind?”

“People don’t always start out as friends.” Anakin shrugs.

Despite himself, Obi-Wan manages a rueful smile. “Forgive me for my manners, but I am suffering from a rather exasperating spell of insomnia. I am quite exhausted, and I do wish to be alone.”

“Well,” Anakin says musingly, “I do not wish to intrude.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you want to be alone, you’ll need to be the one leaving, not me.”

Obi-Wan furrows his brows. “Why?”

“Are you kidding me? This is the best view on the ship.” Anakin waves in the general direction of above. “And once we reach the Lumea-Baste system, we’re going to wrap around Kamada, just in time to watch sunrise through its atmosphere.”

Obi-Wan vaguely remembers coming across this information in the holo-brochure, so he does not doubt the validity of Anakin’s claim. Although, there still exists a gap in the boy's reasoning that does not quiet seem to bridge. “Sunrise is not for another five hours.”

“I don’t plan on sleeping,” Anakin half-snorts, “Do you?”

Obi-Wan frowns, watching as Anakin drops to sit with his legs dangling between the rails—a carefree, boyish gesture that is both charming and irksome.

“You’re not supposed to be in this quarter,” he eventually says.

Anakin looks up at him with a petulant air of defiance, a bitter twist to his frown. “Why does it matter? Everyone’s asleep. Me being here will not ruin their ambiance of perfection when no one is around to see me. Well, except for you, I suppose. If you decide to report me, I will have no choice but to leave.”

Obi-Wan resigns with an exasperated sigh. “Stay if you wish. I will not report you.”

The young man lifts his brows, surprised, “Thanks, really. I uh—Sorry, I don't know your name.”

“Obi-Wan,” the Jedi provides, “My name is Obi-Wan.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Anakin’s smile is demure, but it reaches his eyes. 

~~

Anakin must have considered small talk appropriate, because Obi-Wan learns more about the young man than he could ever have hoped for in the hours that followed. Anakin was born on Tatooine, a small arid planet in the Outer Rim that revolves around twin suns. The days are doubly blazing, but the nights are as cold as any barren desert, without a single fire or light on the ground to obscure the sea of stars above. The sky is almost as beautiful as watching from space.

Anakin worked as a mechanic in his teenage years, building and fixing podracers for local gambling lords. Occasionally, he would even indulge in a race himself and had been the only human to win in the Boonta Eve Classic. The money he earned from the race provided him with the motility he had desperately desired.

He left Tatooine at the age of eighteen on the ship of a band of bounty hunters. He worked as both a pilot and a mechanic, although he never stuck with the same crowd for long, hitch-hiking across the galaxy from one odd job to the next. His travels have taken him to Christophsis, Umbara, Ryloth, Naboo, and eventually, Alderaan, where he managed to board the royal Terranova.

Upon arriving in the Lorkeon system, Anakin hopes to stay. The planets’ booming industrialization is sure to provide stable jobs for mechanics and sufficient pay to send back to his family on Tatooine.

“What about you?” Anakin asks, “Where are you from?”

“Coruscant,” Obi-Wan says, his eyes fixed to the black infinity above them. “You don’t see stars like these.”

“But you’re a Jedi,” the younger man insists, “You must travel all the time, to every corner of the galaxy.”

“Rarely do you enjoy stars,” Obi-Wan explains, “When war is happening all around you.”

Anakin nods, sensing the somberness in his companion’s voice. “What do you plan on doing? When we reach the Lorkeon system?”

“Head right back. I am only here to accompany the Senators as their protection.”

“Oh.”Anakin turns away, disappointed. “Even now, I guess, you’re not truly free to enjoy the stars.”

Obi-Wan laughs, with only a twinge of irony.

Eventually they reach Kamada, the ship halting just below the gas planet’s atmosphere, as promised. Footsteps patter around them, as more and more passengers emerge from their suits, filling the platform until Obi-Wan and Anakin are standing side by side.

They watch as rose pink blooms in the horizon, gold lining the edges of Kamada’s massive clouds. Orange and red soon tinge the skies as if lit by embers of a giant fire, a frozen explosion sprawling across the atmosphere, dissolving the deep purple and ink black that once caressed the dark side of the planet. Kamada’s sun rises like an volcanic star—as beautiful and breathtaking as it is jarring and violent.

Painted in orange, Anakin shifts beside the Jedi and smiles, just as the skin of his arm brushes the fabric of Obi-Wan’s robes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone who has read/commented! I decided this will be four chapters, although I am debating whether I should finish this before returning to _I have lied my way to the stars_. I am awful at multi-tasking, although I feel terrible for making my readers wait..
> 
> But regardless, I will strive to update _something_ every week-ish! Enjoy the latest chapter!
> 
> PS apologizing in advance for the shameless Titanic references
> 
> PSS Bail and Padmé totally ship Obikin
> 
> PSS I only got to proof-read this once because of work, so let me know if i wrote anything stupid

The master shipbuilder, who had designed Terranova from the keel plates up, is a Duros architect by the name of Alecha Esmaric. He joins Obi-Wan’s breakfast table the following morning and saturates their conversation with enthusiastic details about the inner workings of the ship. For ten long years, Terranova had been his mind and soul, and Esmaric took great pride in every bolt holding together his masterwork, every element smelted into the unbreakable durasteel shell.

“This ship is a wonder, Mr. Esmaric,” Padmé says, marvel in her voice. “It truly is.”

“I may have tightened the screws and bolts,” Esmaric’s smile is almost modest, “But the idea was entirely Lord Novastar’s.”

“You give yourself too little credit, my friend," the shipowner laughs, “The dimensions I had envisioned was so grand in scale, the engines so audacious in their capacity, that ten of the eleven engineers I approached simply laughed in my face. It was you, Mr. Esmaric, who willed by vision to life.” 

For the majority of the breakfast pleasantry, Obi-Wan sits in silence, nodding absently along while wondering how many cups of caf must he consume to trick his mind into functioning anywhere close to normal capacity. The Jedi is exhausted, having failed to salvage a wink of sleep the night prior, even after returning to his chambers following the Kamada sunrise. Time appears to stretch indefinitely over breakfast, the voices around him warping and fading like underwater drones, as he fights against the weight of fatigue pressing on his fluttering eyelids.

Esmaric mumbles over a detail regarding escape shuttles, and Obi-Wan, in his semi-conscious state, nearly misses it.

“The number of shuttles,” the Jedi says suddenly, his voice garnering surprise, “Forgive me, but given the capacity that you have mentioned, it seems that there are not enough for everyone aboard.”

“Master Jedi, you miss nothing,” Esmaric smiles wryly, “There certainly is room for everyone aboard, if each and every shuttle reaches maximum capacity.”

Obi-Wan furrows his brows, displeased. “The margin of error—or lack of, in this case—hardly seems safe. What if an escape shuttle were to malfunction? Or some were to mistakenly launch without reaching full capacity?”

“The original design contained these new supports,” Esmaric’s voice is calm, inappropriately dismissive, “Which could carry an extra row of shuttles, but it was thought, by some, that the deck would look too cluttered. I was overruled.”

“Therefore, you risk the safety of your passengers for a more visually-attractive deck?” Obi-Wan repeats, incredulous.

“We have adhered to the guidelines, General Kenobi,” Novastar interjects on behalf of his architect, “The number of escape shuttles included is enough.”

“You may have adhered to guidelines, but you have not adhered to logic,” the Jedi raises his voice a dangerous octave. “Or to the protection of the thousands of beings aboard. It is a crime to operate this ship as it is, and I find it absurd that you can even—”

“Obi-Wan, please,” Padmé rests a hand on his shoulder, attempting to placate him. He does not realize his burning rage until he sees the concern in her dark, umber eyes.

“I must admit that I agree with Master Kenobi,” Bail addresses the businessman, reiterating Obi-Wan’s concern but with infuriating calmness and articulation. “A ship of this caliber cannot function with such a precarious safety system.”

“The Galactic Board of Trade has made their guidelines clear, and we have followed them,” Novastar does not waver. “Mr. Esmaric and I have committed no crime.”

“Please know that we are not accusing you of a crime,” Padmé interjects, “If this is truly the case, we must speak to the Galactic Board, so that greater safety precautions can be made for the future.”

On her last syllable, she shoots Obi-Wan a pointed half-warning, and it stirs something awful within the Jedi as he clenches his jaws, beseeching the Force for a soothing wave of calm.

Esmaric laughs, attempting a light-hearted air. “Rest assured, Master Jedi, I have built you a good ship. She’s all the escape shuttle you will need.”

~~

“Isn’t it a bit early in the day to drink yourself to oblivion?”

Inside the cantina, Obi-Wan frowns at his half-empty glass of rum, as Bail Organa drops to the stool beside him.

“Forgive me for my behavior,” the Jedi sighs, finding his loss of control rather uncharacteristic in retrospect, especially for a Jedi of his caliber. “Hopefully, I have not damaged any of the negotiations you and Padmé have been striving to solidify.”

“Worry not, Obi-Wan,” Bail waves away his concerns, “You have brought up a very good point, and I am grateful that you were able to catch it. This ship cannot continue to operate without a more reliable safety system, but the issue runs deeper than simply the rashness of businessmen. Strictly in the perspective of law, Novastar has done nothing wrong. The issue is beyond his influence, and we must not antagonize such a powerful man, when his assistance is likely needed to ameliorate the situation at its roots.”

Obi-Wan knows that Bail is right, but something in the depth of his soul still festers and aches. Nevertheless, if it is possible to be a politician and a good man, Bail Organa is the closest there is.

Obi-Wan may be lauded as the Negotiator, a diplomat to the Council whose tongue is as sharp as any blade, but what separates him from a true politician is a degree of brazenness that he can never quite muster. It is one thing to deceive enemies with clever lies, but to twist the truths before one’s own people—regardless of how noble the intentions might be—Obi-Wan cannot feign such shamelessness. To deceive, to manipulate, to lie—the words may roll easily off his tongue, but the shame and reproach that follow, they linger in his throat always.

It has taken nearly as long as the war itself, for Obi-Wan to realize the hypocrisy of his existence as a guardian of truth, a keeper of peace. From sector to sector, he steered his soldiers, fighting for freedom rather than lives. He sang of justice in marble halls but saved no breath for the enslaved and the oppressed, abandoned in the backwaters of the Outer Rim long before the galaxy was torn in two. What good is a selective compassion, an exclusionary hope, or a teaching rooted in idealism and perfection in an irredeemably imperfect world? Upon returning to Coruscant, Obi-Wan has never felt more lost. The gentle caress of the Force is familiar and true, but the world beneath his touch feels nothing like home. 

“Is something the matter, Obi-Wan?” Bail watches him with a worried frown. “You have been ill at ease, ever since boarding the ship.”

Obi-Wan chuckles with a touch self-deprecation that he had hoped to contain. “A night of poor sleep, that is all. Perhaps I should reserve myself to my chambers, as alarming as my behavior has been.”

“If that is what you wish.” Bail squeezes his shoulder, offering a sidelong smile. “We truly do enjoy your company, even though you act as if you’d rather be hurled off the ship.”

Obi-Wan laughs, this time genuinely. “Am I really so obvious, my friend?”

A sudden clash of voices interrupts their conversation, redirecting their attention to the halls beyond the cantina.

“ _Fuck_ —Let go of me,” comes a cry in a familiar voice, “Let go!”

Obi-Wan and Bail exit the corridors, just as Novastar emerges from the adjacent lounge, a stern frown pressed to his lips. They find Esmaric at the end of the narrow hall, conversing with his guards. 

“What is this noise about?” Novastar is the first to speak. 

The bodies shift in response to the shipowner’s discontentment, revealing Anakin between two uniformed men, his arms restrained behind his back. Obi-Wan manages to curb his surprise mostly to a quirk of his brows.

“I caught this scoundrel,” Esmaric spits, “Sneaking around on the deck.”

“I wasn’t sneaking around!” Anakin hisses back. “I have a pass, for fuck’s sake!”

The Duros architect stalks to the young man, his blue complexion livid. “You are a thief, that’s what you are. Don’t try to fool me even for a second!”

“A thief?” Obi-Wan interjects, as two pairs of eyes snap to his. “What was stolen, might I ask?”

“Blueprints,” Esmaric huffs indignantly, “Designs of the ship. They would sell for a fortune on the black market.”

“We both know I have no need for your designs,” Anakin scoffs hatefully, as if their grudge went beyond simple thievery, “Now let me go. I have the right to be here, like everyone else.”

A fleeting worry shines in Esmaric’s eyes, before being shadowed by mounting rage. “There was an unauthorized entry to my study, and you are the only one captured by our security, who doesn't belong in the first-class tier.”

“Liar!” Anakin shouts, “I didn’t step anywhere near your study!”

“When was this unauthorized entry registered?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Three standard hours before sunrise.”

“Then, I am afraid you’ve captured the wrong man. He has an alibi—Mister, uh—”

“Skywalker,” Anakin offers.

“Yes, Mister Skywalker. He was with me.”

“With you?” Bail raises an intrigued brow. “In the middle of the night?”

Obi-Wan flushes, irked by the Senator’s tactless insinuation. He masters his embarrassment expertly, however, resuming as if Bail hasn’t spoken at all. “We had a long conversation on the deck. Surely, there are holo recordings one can use to verify.”

Dissatisfied, Esmaric retrieves a holopad concealed in his sleeves, pressing harshly at the keys on the screen. 

“Hey, stop it!” Anakin struggles anew, dislodging his capturers with impressive strength. By the time he breaks free, Esmaric has already bypassed the security, the data within the holopad spilling into the space before them.

There are no blueprints, no diagrams of the ship. Instead, they see holographs of Tatooine deserts and Sullust plains, the crystalline lakes of Takodana before ancient temples. They find frozen images of Whaladons, the cobalt wings of a Felluian skycather, the smiling face of a dark-haired girl on an incandescent cobblestone street, just after a late night rain.

More and more holographs continue to spill, before Anakin angrily snatches the device away, shutting it down. “Congratulations,” he says drily, “You managed to infiltrate my travel journal. Have you seen enough?”

“If you have nothing to hide,” Esmaric sneers, “Why were you running?”

“Why was I being chased?” Anakin shouts, incensed.

The architect’s lips quiver with rage, as he gestures indignantly for his guards. “Take him to the security office so we can get to the bottom of this.”

Anakin motions to object, but Obi-Wan beats him to speak first. “Is it truly necessary to detain a man before he is proven guilty? We are on a ship, Mr. Esmaric. Where can he possibly run off to?”

The architect appears caught out, before narrowing his eyes. “You venture out of your way, General Kenobi, to defend a likely thief.”

“I believe he is innocent,” the Jedi simply says.

“He does not belong in these quarters,” Esmaric insists, “Surely, I can remove him for that.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Obi-Wan strokes his beard, just as an idea enters his thoughts. “Are we allowed to invite guests?” he asks, turning to Novastar

“Of course, General Kenobi,” the Lorkeon, who otherwise has been a silent spectator, responds with mild surprise. “As you wish.”

“Please, join us for dinner, Mr. Skywalker,” Obi-Wan says, before amending quickly to placate the enraged Esmaric. “I only hope to aid in the investigation, in case you wish to find Mr. Skywalker again, to recount his night.”

“This is very kind of you,” Anakin politely retracts, “But I do not wish to intrude on your—”

“No, please,” Obi-Wan repeats, watching the young man meaningfully, trying not to sound desperate. “I insist.”

Exasperated and speechless, the blue-skinned architect storms off, throwing up his hands and cursing in his native tongue. He requests Novastar to accompany him to the security office, presumably to have a private word.

“So,” Bail turns to Anakin and smiles, after the ship-owner and the architect are out of earshot. “What do you have to wear?”

~~

Obi-Wan descends to the lively deck, ignited beneath a constellation of chandeliers. Elegance and power eludes from the company around him—influential men and women of all species from every corner of the galaxy, draped in the finest silks and satins, bearing jewels of Sein crystals and Maelibi gold. By the double doors, a waiter offers him a glass of wine, and the Jedi accepts this time with a tight-lipped smile. He sighs as he takes the first sip, willing his mind ready for another evening spent in stiff politics and meaningless gossip.

“Master Kenobi.” The voice is familiar, but laden with a foreign, timid edge. Obi-Wan turns to find Anakin, clad in the deep royal blue of Alderaanian tradition, his rebellious curls combed and pressed endearingly, to the best of his ability.

“Force,” says Obi-Wan, suppressing a smile, “What has the Senator done with you?”

“I took sympathy on him, that’s what.” Bail joins them, feigning an air of indignation. “Unlike you, who threw the boy into the lion’s den without even offering a proper set of robes.”

Anakin shrugs, a shy smile on his lips, brushing away wrinkles from his costume. The Senator of Alderaan has a sturdier build, but Anakin is just as tall, with enough muscle on his bones to fill the robes admirably. Obi-Wan doubts that his Jedi robes would be more appropriate in this situation. 

“It escaped my mind that you might’ve been in need of formal attire,” Obi-Wan speaks softly, embarrassed by his uncharacteristic lack of foresight. “Forgive me.”

“These Jedi lot,” Bail blows air contemptuously, “So preoccupied with their spiritual ways—the balance between good and evil, the light and the dark—that the needs of the worldly often elude them.”

Obi-Wan parts his lips to protest, while Anakin laughs, speaking first. “Regardless, I am grateful for this invitation. Tell me, Master Kenobi, do I make a convincing senator?” 

Anakin spreads his arms slightly, eyes casted almost shyly to the space just above Obi-Wan's collarbone. Once again, someone else beats Obi-Wan to speak.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be a Senator?” Padmé joins their small circle—her petite frame draped in imperial gold and jade-green velvet, long hair fashioned in twin buns. 

“And you are far too beautiful, Senator Amidala.” Anakin’s face brightens upon seeing her, as the faces of many men before him. He bows politely, taking an ivory-gloved hand and bringing it to his lips. 

“Too beautiful to be a Senator?” Padmé tilts her head, challenging.

“Too beautiful to walk the earth, seas, and skies,” Anakin quickly amends, sensing the danger. 

“A sharp mind behind honey-laced flattery,” Padmé laughs, “You would make a good politician.”

“There is little need for introductions, it appears,” Obi-Wan comments, a subtle twinge of envy veiled behind a smile, “As you are already acquainted with my only two friends on this ship.” 

“Do not let his modesty trick you, Anakin,” Padmé brushes away his words, “Obi-Wan is very popular among the guests here, being a Jedi Master and a hero to the Republic—a detail often downplayed to his own volition. I, however, find great pleasure in speaking of his admirable bravery.”

Obi-Wan flushes, realizing Padmé's purest intentions but loathing the praise, nonetheless. He has yet to fathom his reasons for inviting Anakin to this evening, but it certainly wasn’t to laud over the medals he had won for the actions that still haunt him during lonely, sleepless nights. 

“Come,” Bail interjects, perhaps sensing the Jedi’s discomfort, “You must dine with us, Anakin. The cuisine on this ship is delightful, but the formalities tiresome. Three different forks to poke a salad with—it is something I can never comprehend.”

“I must voice my complaint, Senator,” Obi-Wan remarks as they make their way across the saloon. “You never offered such charitable advice the first time I dined with the royal family of Alderaan.”

“There are times,” Bail shrugs, his smile wry, “When I simply find deprived pleasure in watching a perfect Jedi flounder.”

~~

They find their seats at the dine table, with Anakin between Obi-Wan and Padmé, and Bail on the opposite side accompanying Novastar. Other guests file in as dinnertime approaches, with the Duchess of Luvalle joining their table, accompanied by lesser-known members of the Sefarian royalty. Eventually, Esmaric occupies the last available seat, regarding Anakin with thinly veiled contempt.

“May I introduce Mr. Anakin Skywalker,” Novastar speaks to his guests with a small, taut smile. “Who is joining us from the third class, to aid in an investigation.”

“Is the ship in danger, my Lord?” The Duchess gasps, wrapping long strings of pearls around thick, webbed fingers. 

“How does the investigation go?” Obi-Wan asks. “Know that it is my job to guarantee the safety of the senators, should you require assistance from a Jedi.”

“There is no need for any alarm,” Esmaric answers hastily, with a diffident smile to the Duchess and then to Obi-Wan. “A simple security breech to my personal study, that is all. My guards have complete control over the investigation.”

Anakin looks at Obi-Wan and flashes a small, secretive smile, failing to contain his satisfaction at Esmaric’s verbal blunders. His contentment quickly vanishes, however, when he notices Novastar from across the table, watching him with dark, scrutinizing eyes—as if he were a specimen rather than a person.

“Lord Novastar,” Anakin begins, “Is something the matter?”

Novastar pinches together his brows, before suddenly widening his eyes, exclaiming, “Ah, I knew you seemed familiar! Anakin Skywalker, the young mechanic on Tatooine—that arid, inhospitable desert of a planet—”

“Yes,” Anakin responds stiffly, “That is home.”

“Forgive me for my rudeness,” Novastar indulges him with a rare, open smile. “I am simply surprised. It must have been five years, at least. You were still a boy back then, on the brink of manhood. I must thank you again, for repairing my ship.”

“You’re very welcome, my Lord.” Anakin ducks his head, obviously uncomfortable with the Lorkeon’s compliment, which is a curious contrast to the boyish confidence he eludes whenever he receives kindness from Padmé, Bail, or Obi-Wan. “I was happy to be of assistance.”

“Home on Tatooine?” the Duchess snuffles on the other end, “How is it that you have the means to board the Terranova, given your humble roots?”

“I work as a mechanic,” Anakin responds graciously to the Duchess’ snobbery, “I travel from system to system, fixing droids and ships, offering assistance when needed. But I won my ticket on Terranova here, with a lucky hand at Sabacc.”

“A lucky hand indeed,” Bail remarks.

“And where exactly do you live now, Mr. Skywalker?” Esmaric asks.

“Well, right now my address is the R.S.C. Terranova. After that, I’m on the universe’s good humor.”

“And you find that sort of rootless existence appealing?”

“You are more aware of my roots than most at this table, Mr. Esmaric.” Anakin straightens in his chair, his crystal blue eyes flickering dangerously with a cold, measured anger. “I come from the desert planet of Tatooine, where I had repaired Lord Novastar’s ship when his own mechanics could not. My stepfather is a moisture farmer, my mother a former slave. The universe does not appear too vast when you are grounded in endless sand. You call my existence rootless, but I call it freedom. Freedom to walk the skies and swim the seas, to wake to the endless possibility that is the unknown. Just the other night, I slept in the luggage compartment of an Alderaanian transport cruiser, and now, here I am, on the grandest ship in the universe, having champagne with you fine beings. Life is a gift, not to be wasted on idleness, vice, or fear. You never know the hand you are dealt, so you learn to live each day as your last, to make every moment, every breathe of air count.”

A brief silence falls over the table, before Bail nods, raising his glass in a salute. “Well said, Anakin.”

“Here, here,” Padmé joins her fellow senator in the toast, regarding the Dorus architect with a graceful air of defiance. “Bravo.”

Obi-Wan contemplates the scene before him, intrigued by Anakin’s speech and the friendship he is able to inspire—this strange sense of protectiveness the Jedi feels for the young man evidently shared by both Bail and Padmé. He locks eyes with Anakin briefly, before reaching for his glass and mirroring the gestures of the senators, his voice clear for all to hear.

“To making it count.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for those who have stuck with me thus far! One more chapter, and it is complete (although, I might update _I have lied my way to the stars_ before uploading part 4, just to remind everyone that I have not given up on my main fic)
> 
> Enjoy, and comments/feedback are loved as always! <3

If Anakin had been nervous throughout the evening, he doesn’t let any of it show, fitting perfectly into the role of a young diplomat—a touch quiet perhaps, but polite and amiable when invited to join conversations. During the waning hours of the after dinner social, Obi-Wan finds the young man alone by the fountain, a vague look of relief on his face after excusing himself from an extended discussion with the Baroness of Wessmier and her overly enthusiastic daughters. The Jedi finishes his second glass of wine, before mustering the nerve to approach the young mechanic.

“Master Kenobi,” Anakin greets, catching his eyes as the Jedi traverses the room.

“There is no need for formalities,” Obi-Wan smiles, “It has been a long day.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Anakin laughs, brushing away a wayward curl from his eyes, “And quite the eventful evening. Not often do I get to experience life on the other side.”

“Regrettably, it grows tiresome.” Obi-Wan folds his hands neatly into his robes, watching their affluent company from afar. Beside him, Anakin arches a brow.  
`  
“Tiresome? It has only been two days aboard the Terranova.”

“Luxury, frivolity, distraction,” Obi-Wan sighs, “They are incongruous with the way of the Jedi. I do miss the Temple, and our simpler, more pragmatic means.”

“If I may ask,” Anakin watches him closely for a moment, before gathering his words. “Why did you invite me to dine this evening?”

Obi-Wan laughs, admitting his lack of answers despite a night of careful deliberation. “I am afraid my invitation roots itself in selfish whims. I am neither a businessman nor a politician, and I truly enjoy your company more.”

“It is a relief, if I am to be honest,” the young mechanic grins, “I did intrude rather rudely on your time a night ago.”

“My time is not important,” Obi-Wan shakes his head, frowning, “At least, not to those who deemed my presence necessary on this ship. And if I may ask—” he pauses, collecting his thoughts. “—And only if you are willing to tell me, what exactly is this antagonism you share with the architect Esmaric?”

“That obvious?” Anakin sighs, hiding a grimace.

“Remarkably so,” confirms the Jedi, remembering the static in the Force when the two met on opposite ends of the dinner table, strumming at his string-tight nerves and causing the hairs at the back of his neck to prickle. Certainly, even the non-Force sensitive could feel the tempest in the air.

“You would not believe me if I told you.” Anakin looks away.

“No, please,” Obi-Wan insists, knowing he will believe the young man, even without a word spoken.

“The enigma of the twin engine,” Anakin begins, eyes fixed to a distant corner of the foyer, “To be compact enough to fix into the core of the ship, but powerful enough to resist even the gravitational pull of the largest planets in our galaxy—I had solved it, during my time on Tatooine.”

“You helped build the Terranova,” Obi-Wan says, eye widening.

“I did not help build it,” Anakin shakes his head, “But I did design it, the parts that matter at least—engine, cockpit, stabilizers, turbines. Everything keeping this giant hunk of metal afloat.”

“Terranova,” Obi-Wan whispers, “The invincible ship.”

“Invincible,” Anakin smiles mutedly, “If treated right.” He pauses and inhales, before recounting a tale that evidently brought him little joy.

Five years ago, Lord Novastar’s ship made a crash landing on Tatooine. Anakin was eighteen at the time, wandering the port city of Mos Espa for work, when he noticed Esmaric and his throng of engineers, bargaining for machine parts and getting nowhere with the boorish junk dealers. The ships in the Arkanis sector operated with different compressor fuels and a more primal standardization system, and Novastar’s engineers, complacent in the Lorkeon’s more sophisticated technology, lacked the resourcefulness to work around such constraints. Anakin acquainted himself with these unlucky visitors and managed to repair their ship when finally given the opportunity. Novastar had rewarded him generously for the time lost.

The credits were transferred directly to Anakin’s family, but the young engineer wished for something more—the opportunity to leave the desert planet he had been confined to his entire life. He divulged his wishes to Esmaric, who lured him with the prospect of freedom if he were to solve the enigma of the twin engine destined to carry a new land into the skies. Anakin was given three standard days, and he completed the task with hours to spare, only for the Duros architect to betray him once the designs fell into his hands.

Esmaric hired bounty hunters to capture Anakin and beat him senselessly for two days, threatened his life and the lives of his family if he were ever to mutter a word about Terranova. By the time he emerged, bloodied and famished from the storage where they had kept him, dawn was already breaking for the second time. By then, not even the outline of Novastar’s ship remained in the sand.

“I do not plan to exact revenge,” Anakin’s voice is soft, but his eyes are steel, “If that is where your concerns lie, Master Jedi. Five years have passed, and I have no proof, no credibility to my name. I am only here to satiate my curiosity, the opportunity having arisen merely two nights ago, during a game of Sabacc. I simply wanted to know what became of the grandest ship in the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan watches the young man, his heart heavy and mind alarmingly blank. “I believe you,” is all he manages. “And I am sorry.”

“It worked out in the end, I suppose,” Anakin laughs, attempting to lessen his misery, “I found my way off Tatooine soon after, and for five years, I have explored the galaxy to my heart’s content. Even crossing paths with Esmaric again, I will not allow it change my fortune.”

Obi-Wan returns a hesitant smile, drinking in the sight of the young man and his unabashed optimism. A distinct ache festers in his chest, and he wishes he could manage something— _anything_ —other than helplessness to an injustice beyond his control, or silence in the wake of confounding emotions.

“May I—” Anakin starts again, a hint of hesitation as he reaches into his sleeve. “May I show you something, Obi-Wan?”

He opens his holopad without waiting for a response, projecting the data in a much less conspicuous display than Esmaric had done prior. “My travel journal,” he explains, “I started this around two years ago.”

Obi-Wan watches as holographs flash before his eyes—some familiar and others not—images after images of natural wonders and great beasts, faces of people who are obviously cherished by the owner of these memories. The dark-haired girl reappears many times, always smiling, her backdrop varying from blue skies and white sandy beaches, to foggy alleyways in an unknown city, streetlights incandescent in the evening mist.

“You like her,” Obi-Wan says, “She is featured many times.”

“She is a good friend,” Anakin smiles.

“I think you must have had a love affair with her,” the Jedi remarks and berates himself immediately, for sounding so prying and foolish. He should not care who this woman is—he _does not_ care. The twinge in his heart is most certainly not jealousy.

“No,” Anakin laughs, shaking his head, “She is beautiful, generous, and kind, but I have been acquainted with enough to know what I prefer.”

Obi-Wan swallows thickly at the implication, casting away his eyes. He does not bear the audacity to question any further.

More and more holographs spill into space, including Terranova seen from just below the deck, the arching durasteel walls obscuring half the sky. A still of the luxury garden follows, soon replaced by the sprightly musicians from the second level cantina. They find Obi-Wan alone on the third-tier deck, sipping at his half-empty glass. Obi-Wan smiling before the Kamada sunrise, a crinkle just beside his auburn lashes. Obi-Wan in his formal Jedi robes, clean and simple against the lavish backdrop, searching for familiar faces in the dining saloon.

The Jedi blinks at the holograms, face impassive despite the thunder pounding in his chest. He turns to Anakin for a clarification, only to find the young mechanic watching him intently, blue eyes steady like windless lakes. His discovery of these holographs is by no means a mistake. Anakin wished to elicit a response, and he certainly appears determined to find one.

Eventually, the young mechanic breaks their long silence, explaining, “I wear a camera, controlled by the rhythm of my pulse. I decided to after a job on Mendavi nearly had my life.”

Obi-Wan watches as Anakin tucks away a tuft of brown hair, revealing a tiny contraption hidden behind his left ear.

“I left Tatooine,” Anakin laughs joylessly. “I left my family, even though I love them dearly. It is what I wanted, and for five years, I have wandered the galaxy, in search of a purpose that I know I could not fulfill if I stayed. I do not wish to return without realizing it, but I fear—I fear never seeing my family again. Do you believe everyone is born with a purpose?”

Anakin turns to Obi-Wan, a hint of panic drifting into his tone, his eyes a searching, endless blue.

“Tell me, Obi-Wan, have you found yours?”

“Yes,” he lies, “I have given my life to the temple, to the will of the Force.”

“But now—now that the war is over—” Anakin pauses, teeth sinking into hesitant lips. “You are a Jedi, but certainly, you are more than that. A brother, a son, a lover, perhaps?”

“No, only a Jedi,” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “I was brought to the temple at a young age. I have no memory of a family, other than my late Master and my peers. Jedi—we are encouraged to show compassion, but attachment—it is forbidden.”

“You cannot love,” Anakin whispers, unclear as to whether he means it as a question or a realization.

“We cannot form worldly attachments,” Obi-Wan explains, “The Jedi do not preach celibacy, but celibacy is encouraged—an easy way out, you might say—to avoid the temptation of love and the fear of loss, of the more basal human desires from misguiding our purpose as guardians of peace. Our own selfish love must not overshadow the balance and the goodness of the universe, as a whole.”

“So you must remain disconnected and alone.” Anakin glares into the distance, lips twisted in a bitter frown. “You can fuck, but you cannot make love.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widen at the bluntness, the vulgarity of it all. “Yes—In a way.”

The young mechanic laughs, shaking his head, his mood shifting like a summer storm as he turns to Obi-Wan. He smiles despite the shroud of smoke in his eyes. “Growing up in my disposition, I learn to accept what I can and cannot have, happily and gratefully.”

The clock is nearing midnight, as more and more guests decamp from the saloon, excusing themselves as they retire for the night. Anakin watches them leave, deliberating only briefly before pressing an elbow against Obi-Wan’s arm.

“I do not suppose that you would like to go to a real party?”

~~

A cantina in the third-tier—Obi-Wan had previously envisioned—as Anakin led them down a sinewy staircase with questionable accessibility, which the young man had sworn would be a short cut. They find themselves in the lowest deck of the ship reserved for workers, in a general room alive with music and raucous laughter as men and women, of all species and ages, dance to the rhythm of string drums and slitherhorns. Anakin orders them two pints of stout, handing one to Obi-Wan before hoisting down his in one go.

Obi-Wan is no stranger to the intoxication and debauchery among the rowdier crowds of the galaxy, but admittedly, this is his first time as a semi-willing participant, his drink spilling onto his sleeves as bodies push against his.

“Who dares to bring a Jedi here?” A thunderous bellow rips through the already boisterous atmosphere, as Obi-Wan turns to face an Anzati male, a head taller and twice his mass.

“Fuck off, Rux!” Anakin shouts, pulling Obi-Wan close so that the Jedi is pressed to his front. “He’s with me.”

“Skywalker!” comes another roar, but Anakin has a hand around Obi-Wan’s wrist, dragging him away from the angry Anzati and into a maze of moving bodies.

Two more drinks is all it takes to lure Obi-Wan to complacency, as Anakin pulls him from his bar stool in a clumsy attempt at dancing.

“I don’t know the steps!” the Jedi shouts, syllables slurred at the edges. Anakin laughs into his neck, breath hot in his ear as they sway to the too fast music.

“Neither do I!”

~~

The gravity and consequences of their actions does not fully reach Obi-Wan’s hazy, alcohol-fused mind, until they stumble into Anakin’s chamber in the lower deck of the ship—a humble, windowless room with a night stand, a plain bed, and nothing else against the flour white walls. Anakin kicks off his boots as he steps into the room, shrugging off his robes and dropping them to pool at his feet. He takes Obi-Wan’s wrists and pulls him inside, holding him closer until their lips meet.

Anakin’s mouth is insistent, his breath warm and tasting like rum. He nips at Obi-Wan’s lower lip imploringly, slick tongue sliding against his mouth but never quite entering. Obi-Wan flutters his eyes shut and stays frozen stiff, barely breathing as he listens to the violent beating of his own heart.

Anakin breaks their kiss to drag his lips across Obi-Wan’s cheeks, along his bearded jaw, to the sensitive skin just below his ear. “Is something the matter?”

Obi-Wan takes a stuttering breath, stepping away so he may examine the young man again with a quickly sobering conscience. Of the thousands of passengers on this ship, why Anakin has taken an interest in him—a man sixteen years his senior—eludes the Jedi completely.

“I am too old for you,” Obi-Wan says, eyes fixed to an unknown point between them. “I am a Jedi.”

“It doesn’t matter. I know what I want,” Anakin frowns, before adding with a bitter twinge in his voice, “It doesn’t have to mean anything, if you don’t want it to.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, heart aching with helpless guilt. The _meaningfulness_ of this desire, this desperate wanting for a young man that he cannot have—it is what he has feared all along.

“Forget about everything,” Anakin says, “Just focus on now. Would you—do you want to be with me now?”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan surrenders, feeling Anakin’s warmth bridging the distance between them, their lips meeting once again in a searing kiss.

Anakin doesn’t ask if Obi-Wan has ever been with a man, but he treats him as if he hasn’t, preparing him until he is relaxed under his touch, panting and sweating against the white sheets beneath his back. When the young mechanic enters him, his entire body shudders, the feeling of being filled is so foreign and overwhelming, as if air is being forced out of his lungs.

Obi-Wan feels a hand along his flank, warm and calloused at the base of each finger, caressing him again and again. Anakin shushes him, kisses his cheek, and holds him still until the Jedi has settled around his length, sighing softly against a muscled shoulder and wayward curls.

Anakin readjusts their position, lifting Obi-Wan’s hips and spreading his thighs. Obi-Wan chances a glance down the mechanic's lean torso, to the point where they connect. His face flushes at the lewdness of the sight, mind whirling in a dizzying carousel as he wonders whether this is in fact happening to him.

However, any doubt over the realness of this experience is quickly brushed aside, the moment Anakin buckles his hips, pushing into the tight, wet heat in a steady, controlled rhythm.

The light to the room is on, but dimmed just enough for Obi-Wan to recognize the furrow between Anakin’s brows, the beads of sweat gathering at his hairline. Anakin grunts into his shoulder, lapping at his skin as his movements quicken, slipping a free hand between their stomachs to tease and fondle.

“A-Ah,” Obi-Wan lets out a hoarse moan, as Anakin finds the spot deep inside, that electrifies his every nerve with infinite fire.

The young mechanic lifts his head, smiling as he watches the Jedi come undone beneath him, drowning in every sound, every emotion flickering across Obi-Wan's normally inscrutable countenance. He presses against that spot relentlessly, until Obi-Wan is taut with shivery pleasure, so close to coming that he could weep.

“Look at you.” Anakin reaches for his face, holding his jaw so that their eyes meet. “I wish I could keep a hologram like this of you, flushed and moaning beneath me. Oh, but your eyes—your beautiful, expressive, ever-changing eyes—no holograph, no color can ever do them justice.”

He slides his thumb just beneath Obi-Wan's lashes and kisses the Jedi as he trembles, his orgasm ripping through the depth of his soul. White stars explode behind closed eyelids, as pleasure washes up from the base of his spine, singing fiercely in his rushing blood.

Anakin’s voice is but a whisper, a promise mumbled against muted sighs, “I will remember you like this. Forever and always, Obi-Wan." 

~~

Obi-Wan spends the next two nights in a bed that is not his, wrapped in the warm embrace of his young lover, his sleep satisfying and unperturbed after their long hours of tireless passion.

“Can you stay?” Anakin murmurs against his ear, just as he teeters on the edge of sleep. “Even for a little while, once we reach the Lorkeon system?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter open, his lethargic heartbeat quickening, pulling him back into reality. Terranova will reach its destination in three standard days. This subject—eluded like taboo in the impassioned nights prior—is bound enter their conversation, somehow.

“Lord Novastar has offered me a position in one of his industrial projects,” the young mechanic explains, “I am destined to stay, after all.”

Obi-Wan turns so that they are face-to-face, Anakin's restive blue eyes locking with his. “That is wonderful news, Anakin. It is what you wanted all long.”

Is it possible for your heart to ache and sing at the same time? Obi-Wan is happy for Anakin, he truly is, but to hold this unwavering truth in his mind, the knowledge of their definitive goodbye so imminent in the future—his soul sinks with bitter disappointment.

But Obi-Wan knew—he must have, all along—that Anakin can never be his.

 _Selfish_ , he berates himself, a mirthless smile on his lips. _Foolish, old man_.

“How much time will we have?” Anakin asks, “Once the ship reaches Lorenddur?”

“I do not know,” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “My time here depends on the Senators. I will return with them, as their protection.”

Anakin casts away his eyes, his lips stiffening in a stubborn frown. Silence fills the space between then, save for the murmur of a distant engine strumming along the durasteel skeleton of the ship. But the Force trembles from the young mechanic's despair, its caress tender along the Jedi's too-worn heart.

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan laments, reaching for the young man’s cheek. “You are so beautiful, so young, so full of compassion and life. Surely, you will find another. You do not wish to have me.”

Anakin shakes his head, failing to master the desperate edge in his tone. “You are wrong, Obi-Wan. I want you more than words can express, and it aches to know that I cannot have you. Please, allow me this happiness, for the few remaining days we have together.”

He watches Obi-Wan with pleading eyes, before the Jedi finally relents, surrendering to the other with a nod. Anakin shifts closer, tangling their limbs as they kiss, and they both fall asleep in their momentary bliss, the solemn weight of reality all but a faint whisper in the back of their minds. 

~~

Obi-Wan wakes abruptly, grappling with a nightmare that drenched him in cold sweat. His breath stutters as he blinks into the darkness, heart fluttering like a caged bird inside his ill-fitting chest. He reaches to the space beside him and finds Anakin warm and still, snoring softly beneath the covers.

Obi-Wan stills for a moment, legs crossed and face buried in his palms, beseeching the Force for calmness and strength in the wake of this senseless and inexplicable fear.

That is when something _immovable_ strikes the ship, an awful crash tearing through the silence and shaking their entire chamber.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are loved and appreciated xx


End file.
